by Gayle Forman
“Friends,” Abu says, acting as if it’s perfectly normal for Harun to bring people—one of them a girl—home without warning. “We will add two more chairs to the table. Come, Rabia, I will help you,” he tells Ammi.
From the dining room, Harun hears the scraping of chairs, the clattering of additional plates and silverware, Ammi and Abu’s hushed conversation, which he does not need to hear to know the content of. Who are these strangers Harun has brought?
Suspicious. That’s fine. That’s why he brought them here. To subject himself to one of Ammi’s scrupulous audits.
As the seats are rearranged in the dining room, questioning glances are bandied about the living room. None of his siblings say anything. They are too polite. It’s Saif’s wife, Leesa, who finally asks, “Are these your friends from school?”
And though he has not told Freya or Nathaniel a thing about this meal, or about his family, or his predicament, or himself, really, without missing a beat, Freya smiles and says, “Yes.”
By the way Halima’s eyes widen, Harun understands that he’s not the only Freya fan in the family. He feels a twinge of regret that they never discussed this. It would have been nice to share something with someone in this family.
“What is it you study?” Abdullah asks.
“Music,” Freya replies.
“Nursing,” Nathaniel says.
“I didn’t realize the school offered such a diverse curriculum,” says Halima.
“Or that men could be nurses,” Saif says.
“Don’t be such a sexist jerk,” Halima says. “Of course they can. People can be lots of things.” Though she’s speaking to Nathaniel, she’s looking at Harun.
“Please,” Ammi says, returning to the living room, “come to the table.”
The table is set with the linens Ammi carried with her when she came here, nearly thirty years ago, and is laden with crispy samosas gleaming with oil, pakoras, jewel-colored sauces, dahi bharas.
They all sit. Ammi begins passing around the platters of appetizers. Remembering how hungry Nathaniel was before, Harun instructs Ammi to give him two of each, explaining what each one is.
When the platter comes to Leesa, she demurs and turns her attention to Freya. “Not to be rude, but how do music majors expect to make any money?”
Ammi coughs.
“I’m sure she’ll find a way,” Halima says, giving Harun a look.
“It’s not so easy to make it as an artist,” Leesa says. “When I was younger I wanted to be a figure skater, but there’s no money in that either, and you have to travel constantly.” She shakes her head. “I’m a homebody, so no thanks. Luckily, I had a plan B: real estate. You have to have a plan B. Do you?”
“No,” Freya admits in a small voice.
“You should,” Leesa says. “I mean, there’s probably more money in nursing. And definitely in real estate. Steve and I do quite well for ourselves, don’t we, babe?”
“There’s more to life than money,” Ammi says. “And many paths to take.”
“So long as the paths lead to medicine, business, or law,” Halima says.
“Don’t forget,” Abdullah adds. “Engineering is also okay.”
“That’s not fair,” Ammi says to Halima. “You want to be a . . .” She waggles her fingers. “Cartoon maker.”
“An animator, Ammi. Like for Pixar.”
Harun watches this all in disbelief. Why are they talking about career choices?
Ammi turns to Nathaniel. “What kind of nursing will you do?”
“Stop questioning my friends,” Harun says. He knows he’s behaving rudely, but he wants the interrogation to turn from Nathaniel to himself, where it belongs.
“Hospice care,” Nathaniel replies.
“With dying people?” Leesa says. “How depressing.”
“I think it’s an honor to accompany people as they pass.” Nathaniel pauses to lick a bit of tamarind sauce off his finger. “We all die. It’s the only sure thing in life and the one thing we all have in common with everything else on the planet.”
“Indeed, but for us, may it not be for a long time, Inshallah,” Abu says. “Shall we move on to the main course?”
Ammi stands. “Beti, help me carry in the food.”
Halima stands. Freya does too. The three of them disappear into the kitchen, reappearing with enough food for ten extra guests. Freya sets down chicken karhai in front of Harun. “Your mom says this is your favorite.”
Chicken karhai and lamb biryani and beef keema. All of the dishes are his favorite. But he did not come here for a nice dinner with his favorite foods. He came here to force the issue. Why is no one forcing anything?
“Is everything spicy?” Leesa asks, looking at the food. She turns to Nathaniel. “I always get the worst indigestion when I leave here.”
“I made you something special, not spicy,” Ammi says. She points to a bowl of plain spaghetti noodles.
Leesa grimaces. “I can’t eat pasta. I have a gluten allergy.”
“A gluten allergy?” Ammi asks.
“Yeah, no bread, no pasta, no cakes. That kind of thing.”
“Saif didn’t mention any allergy.”
“It’s okay. I’ll just have rice.”
“Try the lentils, babe,” Saif says.
“Are the lentils spicy?” Leesa asks.
“To me they’re not,” Ammi says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that she doesn’t think the lentils are spicy,” Halima huffs.
Leesa sighs. “How about we open that wine?” She gestures to a bottle, still in shiny Mylar wrapping, on the sideboard. “It’s a twist-off.” She turns to Freya. “I’ve learned from experience that this family doesn’t own a corkscrew.”
“We don’t drink wine,” Halima says. “Why would we have a corkscrew?”
“For guests?” Leesa says.
Ammi takes the bottle from the sideboard, holding it gingerly, as if it contains strychnine. “Do you want wine?” she asks Freya and Nathaniel.
“I’m fine with water,” Freya says.
“Me too,” Nathaniel says.
Harun looks at his friends, surprised at how at ease they seem. When he asked them if they wanted to join him for a family dinner, he didn’t explain who would be there, or what dynamics to expect, or what the dinner was for. He didn’t have to. They said yes as soon as he mentioned the meal, and once they were on the train, he couldn’t figure out the right way to interject: Oh, by the way, the dinner is a farewell for me because tomorrow I’m leaving for Pakistan to find a wife, even though I still love James and don’t want a wife, and by the way, James told me to get the fuck out of his life. That’s not the sort of thing you just bring up out of the blue. Particularly if you are a coward.
Leesa stands up and takes the bottle from Ammi. “I’ll just help myself,” she says, and marches toward the kitchen. “You want any, Steve?”
“No thanks, babe.”
After she leaves, there’s another awkward silence. The Leesa fireworks dispensed with, Harun holds his breath, waiting for the main event to begin. For Ammi to take a close look at the ledger, to ask questions about Freya and Nathaniel and Harun’s connection to them. Once that happens, everything will unravel, and Harun will have no choice but to come clean.
But Ammi just asks Nathaniel if he too is gluten free, like she thinks this is a white-person quirk.
“Definitely not,” Nathaniel says, filling his plate. “What’s this one?” He points to one of the platters.
“Seekh kebabs,” Abdullah answers.
“And that one?”
“Achar gosht,” Halima says. “Crazy spicy.”
“Maybe start with the kebab,” Ammi says.
Nathaniel takes three. Ammi smiles. “You have very nice friends,” s
he declares. “You should’ve brought them home sooner.”
Harun does not smile back. He did not bring his friends to impress Ammi. He brought them to activate her bloodhound nose. Surely his family would want to know what he was doing with these two people they’ve never met before. Surely Abu would be asking more questions than the perfunctory ones Leesa asked. Surely Ammi’s curiosity about the uninvited guests would not be mollified by the sight of one of them hoovering his plate like there was no tomorrow.
* * *
— — —
About that.
Nathaniel can’t stop eating. He’s already full from the first round, but this is an epic feast. He’s never had such an epic feast. Doesn’t know if he ever will again.
And this food. He closes his eyes to process the flavors. He has never tasted anything like them, but the flavors are still somehow familiar, even if he completely lacks the vocabulary to name them.
* * *
— — —
Freya can name them: garlic, cumin, ginger, cardamom, nutmeg, clove . . . spices her father used to cook with.
“Is there fenugreek in this?” Freya asks, pointing to the biryani.
Harun’s mother lights up. “None of my children even know what fenugreek is, let alone how to discern it among the spices.”
“It’s used in Ethiopian food,” Freya says.
“I’ve never had Ethiopian food,” Harun’s mother replies. “What’s it like?”
“Lots of stews and sauces, similar spices. You eat it with fermented bread, using your hands.”
“Back in Pakistan, we would eat this with our hands too,” Abu tells her, before meticulously wiping his right hand and using it to expertly scoop up meat, rice, and sauce in a neat pocket of naan.
Freya watches him and does the same, only less expertly, and some of the sauce drips onto the tablecloth.
Harun’s mother mops it up, waving away Freya’s apologies. “I like to see people eat.” She glances at the kitchen, where Leesa is still doing something with the wine.
“I’m out of practice,” Freya says. “My dad’s the Ethiopian, and he left years ago. My mom never liked Ethiopian food, so after he left, we stopped eating it.” Freya wonders why that is. For the past few years, she has had plenty of money of her own, access to an entire city of tastes. She could’ve had Ethiopian food if she’d wanted to.
“But you remember the spices,” Harun’s mother says. “That part of you never goes away.”
“I hope so,” Freya says.
“You should cook your food from home.”
“I don’t really know how to cook.”
“It’s easy. I can teach you,” Harun’s mother offers. “I’m sure learning Punjabi food wouldn’t be so different.”
“I’d like that,” Freya says.
“It’s settled. You can come for a cooking lesson while Harun is away.”
Away? Freya absorbs this news. Away where? She glances casually at Harun, but his face is frozen into a screen grab of horror. And Freya understands, suddenly, belatedly, that she and Nathaniel were not invited to this dinner just because.
“I have a favor to ask,” Harun had said as they’d sat on the bleachers, watching Finny and his friends play the game. At that point, Freya would’ve done anything for either of these boys. And a family dinner didn’t seem like a big ask.
“How long are you going away for again?” Freya asks Harun, her voice easy and light, not because she wants to know but because she wants Harun to know she’ll play along, she’ll keep him safe.
“Six weeks,” Harun’s mother answers. “I’ll be so lonely. I’ll need something to fill my time.”
“Excuse me,” Halima says. “Sitting right here.”
“Yes,” Harun’s mother acknowledges. “But you don’t want me to teach you to cook.” She looks adoringly at Freya. “And Freya does.”
“Freya does, does she?” Halima says in the universal needling tone of the younger sister.
“Maybe we can learn together,” Freya tells Halima. For a second she forgets that she’s just playing along for Harun’s sake, and she imagines herself in Harun’s mother’s kitchen, the steam rising out of the pots simmering on the stove, a wooden spoon, dipped and blown on, for them to taste.
She glances at Harun, who looks utterly miserable. There’s that yank on her cord, and Freya feels Harun’s misery as keenly as if it were her own, even if she doesn’t understand its source.
“If you learn Punjabi food, you can cook for your Nathaniel,” Harun’s mother says.
Your Nathaniel. Hearing Harun’s mother say it, validate it, warms her. She cannot hide her smile. Doesn’t even try. “Maybe I will,” Freya says.
“He seems to like the food very much,” Harun’s mother says, watching Nathaniel wipe up any last smears of sauce with a piece of naan.
“No. I love this food,” Nathaniel says.
“Not too spicy?” Harun’s mother asks.
“I can take it,” Nathaniel says.
“Not bad for a gora,” Abdullah says.
“Gora is a white person,” Leesa tells Nathaniel, emerging from the kitchen holding a plastic tumbler full of ice cubes and, presumably, wine in one hand, the half-empty bottle in the other. “Isn’t that nice?”
“It’s not derogatory,” Halima says, “just descriptive. Like calling someone a blonde.”
“Complimentary in this case,” Abdullah says. “Not everyone can handle Ammi’s food.”
“By ‘not everyone,’ you mean me?” Leesa says.
“I meant people who aren’t used to spicy food,” Abdullah says. “Like Nathaniel.”
“Is that a challenge?” Nathaniel asks.
“Well, you haven’t tried the achar gosht yet,” Abdullah says. “If you can manage that, you will earn my undying respect.”
Nathaniel helps himself to a ladle full of the mutton stew. Freya can see that the bite he takes has a small green chili in it.
“Wait,” she calls out. But it’s too late. Nathaniel’s face is a three-alarm fire. He reaches for his water.
“No water,” Halima says. “It only makes things worse.”
Nathaniel ignores her, reaching for the water.
“You need yogurt,” Harun’s mother says, going to fetch some.
Freya glances at Harun, whose face is as ashen and pale as Nathaniel’s is glowing, his plate as full as Nathaniel’s is empty. If Nathaniel has noticed Harun’s discomfort, he doesn’t show it. She tries to catch Harun’s eye, to send a silent message, but the shades are drawn.
When Nathaniel has cleared his plate a third time and everyone else has pushed their dishes away, Harun’s mother rises to clear the table. “Please,” Freya says, putting a hand on her wrist. “Let us do it.”
“I couldn’t,” Harun’s mother says.
Nathaniel stands and nods. “We insist.”
“Harun? Help us?” Freya says. She wants him in the kitchen. She wants him back in the safe huddle of their trio. She wants him to tell them what’s going on and how they can help.
But all he says is “I’ll be just a minute.”
Freya carries a stack of dishes into the kitchen. She means to share her concerns about Harun with Nathaniel, but when he comes to stand next to her at the sink, their hips touching, she’s back in the park, behind the chain-link fence, holding the Louisville Slugger, Nathaniel so close to her she can feel every part of him, and her mind is a blank slate onto which she’s writing loopy hearts.
“Hey” is all she can think to say, looking at his reflection in the window over the sink.
“Hey,” Nathaniel says back to her reflection.
They rinse off the plates and stack them in the dishwasher. One of the bowls slips out of Freya’s hand, and Nathaniel catches it.
“Saved me again,” Freya says. �
�You’ve been doing that all day, it seems.”
“And so have you.”
“You seem to forget I fell on you.”
“I didn’t forget. I’m glad you fell on me.”
“You said that before. Do you enjoy concussions?”
“No.”
“So why would you be glad I fell on you?”
“Because it saved me.”
“Saved you? From what?”
Nathaniel stops washing dishes, and even though he’s staring at Freya’s reflection, she can feel his gaze boring into her. The cord connecting them tugs tighter so there’s no space left between them.
“From my plan B,” Nathaniel says.
“What was your plan B?” Freya asks, her voice strangled in an entirely different way than it’s been these past few weeks.
But Nathaniel doesn’t answer. Halima appears with a new stack of plates. “You guys are making me look bad,” she grumbles.
“What was your plan B?” Freya asks again after Halima leaves.
Nathaniel closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m on to my plan C.”
“Being a hospice nurse?”
“Maybe,” Nathaniel replies, looking at her dead-on. “Or maybe this.”
And then he kisses her.
* * *
— — —
His mouth on her mouth. Her breath in his lungs. Nathaniel can breathe.
His fingers twining her hair. Her fingers clutching his hips. Nathaniel can feel.
His tongue against her neck. Her lips against his throat. Nathaniel can taste.
His groan in her ear. Her sigh in his ear. Nathaniel can hear.
His eyes open. Her eyes open. Nathaniel can see.
As Nathaniel kisses Freya and Freya kisses Nathaniel, every part of him that he thought was dead, that he thought no longer deserved to exist, comes roaring back.
One kiss. Nathaniel is alive.
* * *
— — —
“Are you guys almost done with the dishes?” Halima asks.
Nathaniel and Freya spring apart.
“Uhh,” Halima says, coloring, stuttering. “My father wants to make a speech. So maybe . . .”